Wayward Son (4 page)

“
Auguri
,” he smiled, wishing her good luck. “
E buon viaggio a Roma
.”

Opening the itinerary, Amanda saw that it was for the same British Airways flight that Juan Carlos had mentioned. She realized that thanks were in order.

“That’s very nice of the Getty,” she replied. “And…of you, Dr. Walker.”

She never called him by his first name. He hadn’t invited her to.

“Don’t mention it,” Walker said with a casual wave of his hand. A purple signet ring on his pinky caught a ray from the recessed halogen overhead.

“There is something else, though,” he continued. “I imagine you are pressed with making arrangements. But late yesterday another call came through, from Villa Colosseum in Point Dume.”

“Oh?” Amanda suppressed her curiosity, even as she thought back to her musings on the beach this morning.

“You are aware, of course, that Luc Renard is one of our most generous benefactors?”

“Actually, I didn’t know that.”

The department head clucked genially. “Oh, yes, he has been extremely forthcoming, not just with pledges, but with the real thing—if you catch my drift. Mr. Renard asked his assistant to call. He is particularly eager that you should be present at the unveiling ceremony this evening.”

“Unveiling ceremony?” Suppressing a giggle, Amanda had a split-second mental image of a bride on her wedding day.

“Yes, he is hosting a generous benefit for the museum. The occasion is the first public exhibition of the murals he has commissioned from a relatively unknown artist named Giovanni Genoa. I, of course, received an invitation some weeks ago. But the caller was emphatic about Mr. Renard’s desire that you would also be in attendance.”

Amanda thought that Walker’s stress on this last point sounded forced. But she forged onward.

“Will I have enough time to catch my flight?”

“Not to worry.” Walker rose and walked over to his desk again. He picked up an engraved invitation in a heavy linen envelope and passed it ceremoniously to her.

“They will be starting at six. I have advised Mr. Renard that you will need to leave for LAX no later than eight fifteen.”

“Thank you, Dr. Walker. Of course, I will be there.”

“It will be a very long day for you, but we need to keep our patrons happy, don’t we?” Walker inclined his head, as if to indicate that the audience was over.

Amanda rose to her feet, collected the itinerary and the invitation, and made what she judged to be a dignified exit. Back at her office, she hurriedly dialed the country code 39 for Italy, and then the number in her iPhone for Juan Carlos.

“It’s on,” she said. “British Airways Flight 268, leaving tonight.”

“Fantastic!” came the voice from across the ocean. “I will meet you at Fiumicino.
A domani sera
, Amanda. And have a safe flight.”

***

Fifteen miles to the west in Point Dume, as Archibald Walker and Amanda James were conferring at the Getty, the monogrammed, twenty-foot-tall iron gates of Villa Colosseum swung open to admit an approaching vehicle. An impossibly stretched limousine glided through. The gates shut with a discreet click.

Several minutes later, the limo disgorged its passenger in front of the villa’s broad esplanade. The driver politely ignored the man’s grimace as he rose to his feet. He was tall, lithe, and sandy-haired, rounding forty, dressed casually in golf slacks and a monogrammed shirt. Wraparound sunglasses only slightly softened his angular, sharply grooved features.

Exiting from the house to meet Luc Renard was a white-jacketed Filipino butler. Simultaneously, a furious barking broke out. Three full-grown Dobermans and a pair of muscular Rottweilers raced around the far corner of the mansion, baring their fangs to greet their master. Delighted, Luc allowed them to approach and lick his outstretched hand, then snapped his fingers for them to sit at attention. The diminutive butler Polberto winced but held his ground.

“Good morning, sir, and welcome back. I trust you had an enjoyable flight from Tokyo?”

“Interminable, Polberto,” he groaned. “It’s good to be home. Let’s go inside. It’s too bright out here.”

Luc strode toward the bronze, double-story doors, which opened at a keystroke on Polberto’s remote.

“Would you like something to drink, sir?” the butler inquired.

“No, nothing. Listen, I’m eager to know if everything’s ready for tonight. The invitations said Regrets Only, I recall. Have there been any regrets?”

“Not a single one, sir. The
Los Angeles Times
is calling it the ‘A list’ party of the season.”

“Well, that’s a surprise. Anytime I get an assist from a competitor I have to be grateful.”

“Arnold Schwarzenegger’s social secretary phoned to say that he might be a little late, but no more than half an hour.”

“That figures. Now that he’s back on the movie set, James Cameron runs the Terminator’s schedule,” Luc chuckled with a hint of disdain. “Let me know if he hasn’t arrived in time for the unveiling, I’ll do it myself if necessary.”

“Yes, sir. Mr. Genoa asked me to inform you that Miss Meier phoned Dr. Walker at the Getty. She was assured that Ms. Amanda James will be at the party.”

“Excellent. Make sure she’s well taken care of—the full VIP treatment. We have plans for her.”

“Very good, sir. Will there be anything further at the moment?”

“Yes, please tell Maestro Genoa to meet me in the conservatory in half an hour. We have some last-minute details to cover.”

Polberto bowed obediently and withdrew.

CHAPTER 3

Villa Colosseum, Point Dume, California

AS THE SINKING SUN painted the Pacific far below, Luc Renard stood on the balcony of Villa Colosseum with his muralist in residence. Giovanni Genoa was no taller than Polberto, reaching only to Luc’s shoulder. His balding pate was crowned with long white hair that bushed out at the sides. Flared eyebrows and a grizzled beard, also white, gave Genoa a grandfatherly look. Yet the effect was far from serene. No one would have mistaken the painter for Father Christmas. Instead, his muscled upper body and habitual forward-leaning stance suggested the power and restlessness of a being long accustomed to hunting for a living.

Both men were dressed for the party, Luc in a maroon Armani silk jacket and Giovanni in a dazzling white tuxedo, jauntily garnished with a maroon cummerbund. Both wore Bruno Magli loafers and looked like a matched pair.

“You are pleased with the murals, signore?”

Luc guffawed. “
Pleased
is not the word, Giovanni. I am delighted…ecstatic in fact! What you’ve accomplished in three years Michelangelo couldn’t have done in ten. The murals are stunning, truly extraordinary.”

“That is most kind of you, signore.” The painter bowed graciously to acknowledge the praise he had sought.

“Your murals make Diego Rivera and Orozco look like street artists, graffiti boys. The guests will be enamored of your creations. They will open their arms to embrace you. And they will open their wallets to support the Getty.” Luc clapped his hands gleefully.

“But, signore,” Giovanni Genoa interposed. “Ever since you commissioned the murals, I have felt that you…perhaps—how shall I put this?—wondered why I have presented the theme of violence so graphically?”

“No, you’re on the wrong track there,” replied Luc. “I
wanted
you to highlight human passion in all its intensity. Violence, warfare, rivalry, lust—it is strife that marks the human condition. History is a chronicle of devastation, Giovanni.”

The painter received this gnomic utterance thoughtfully.

“Some philosophers speak of progress, rather than decline,” he responded. “Think of the Enlightenment, for example—”

Luc cut the older man short. “Progress is rubbish. The illustrious leaders of the Enlightenment, Diderot, Voltaire, Locke, Hume and Montesquieu, and all the rest, didn’t have to live through the twentieth century. Mass murder is rampant, Giovanni. Every bone in my body tells me it will become even more so.”

Luc glanced at his watch. “A quarter to six. They’ll be here soon. I think I should review the prepared remarks for the ceremony. Shall we go inside? Let’s convene in the library.”

Luc put his arm around the painter’s shoulders. “I am glad I found you.”

Giovanni Genoa bowed a second time in assent and fell into step beside his patron. “And I, you,” he said softly.

As they made their way to the library, Luc was reassured to see dozens of uniformed staffers attending to last-minute details. Now that the black satin drapes were in place to conceal the murals in the great hall, a team was hastily dismantling the scaffolding and spiriting it away for storage. In the foyer, artists were putting the finishing touches on two massive ice sculptures, each depicting a heavily armed, battle-ready Roman gladiator. Ornamental bronze basins below the plinths would catch the melting runoff while multicolored lasers from above would captivate the guests as they entered the foyer.

The mansion resounded with a cacophony of tuning instruments from the dual hundred-piece orchestras situated inside and outside the villa. In the center of the great hall, a stone dais constructed of large blocks of snowflake obsidian would serve as the focus for the unveiling ceremony. Technicians buzzed over the lighting, the microphone, the podium, and the seating arrangements for dignitaries.

Dozens of waitstaff in black-and-white jackets clustered around their supervisors in a final drill. In their late teens and early twenties, attractive and graceful, many of these young women and men anticipated the moment of discovery—their own, that is, by an influential mogul in entertainment, sports, or another celebrity field. The guest list tonight would be full of such power brokers.

***

It was 4:45 p.m. when Amanda pulled the yellow Jeep Wrangler into the garage of her apartment building. She had barely an hour to shower, change, and repack. If she was going straight from Villa Colosseum to LAX, she would have to change at the airport. Dr. Walker had used his pull to get her admitted to the business class lounge, which offered convenient changing rooms. As for the Wrangler, she would use the airport’s long-term parking. Expensive, but there was no other option with such sudden arrangements.

Plato, of course, was delighted to see her, despite the long, affectionate good-bye she had given him that very morning. But he was not finicky. Amanda’s unanticipated reentry meant some extra bites of savory food. He rubbed against her legs as she hastily opened a can and spooned his meal into a dish.

Out of the shower, Amanda chose a black cocktail dress belted with an aqua sash. She scooped a pair of three-inch pumps off the shelf. She debated whether to wear her hair down or use the tortoiseshell combs her mother had given her when they lived in Japan. She decided in favor of the combs. For jewelry, she selected a favorite pair of aquamarine earrings and a simple gold locket on a chain. Once upon a time, it had held a picture of Juan Carlos. Now that they had drifted apart, however, the locket held only her mom’s photo. She kept telling herself that another picture would take Johnny’s place when the time was right.

Almost ready, she checked her answering machine. Most of her friends used her cell number, but some callers continued to use the landline. Pressing the speakerphone button, she found she had two messages. The first was from Dr. Walker.

“Just an
aide-mémoire
, Amanda. You have to leave the party early, so please try to arrive no later than six fifteen. I’ll wait for you outside the library. The staff will inform you where it is.”
Beeeeeep
.

“Well, how about that,” she murmured to herself. The voice equivalent of a spam gram.

The second message was from British Airways, reminding her that check-in for her flight to Rome was a minimum of two hours before the scheduled flight time. If she didn’t meet the deadline, her reservation might well not be honored.

“Time to split,” Amanda thought. Grabbing the Louis Vuitton and her backpack, she blew a kiss to Plato, let herself out, and double-locked the door.

Arriving at the front gates of Villa Colosseum thirty minutes later, she found a traffic jam. Limos were stacked up on PCH the way the vehicles of lesser mortals clogged the I-5 freeway on weekday mornings. As she maneuvered the Wrangler into the procession, Amanda thought how incongruous her vehicle looked in this parade. She showed her invitation to one of the four armed guards at the main gate and was waved forward.

After a ten-minute crawl, she reached the esplanade in front of the mansion’s main entrance. Several athletic, raven-haired valets who looked like clones jockeyed for her attention. The tallest one issued her a claim check and took custody of her car keys.

“My bags will be okay?” she asked him.

“No worries, Miss. Mr. Renard’s garage is totally secure. I’m Rob, if you need anything,” he added amiably. She caught him admiring her emerald green eyes and her well-proportioned body as she stepped out of the car and onto the paving stones.

Amanda nodded, and the Wrangler swiftly disappeared around the drive and into an underground garage. She noted with satisfaction that it was only 6:10 p.m. Dr. Walker would not be kept waiting.

Amanda took her first proper look at the villa, and it nearly overwhelmed her. “Wow!” Amanda thought. “Europe’s largest cathedrals have nothing on these doors.” She gazed as the great bronze portals swung open wide to admit the partygoers. They must have been thirty feet tall. Directly inside, an elegantly coiffed, middle-aged woman smiled a greeting and stepped through the crowd right in front of her.

“Ms. Amanda James?” as she slid a small picture of Amanda back into a jacket pocket.

“Yes, I’m Amanda.”

“Welcome to Villa Colosseum. I’m Sandra Meier, Mr. Renard’s executive assistant. Mr. Renard is especially pleased that you were free to attend tonight.”

“I’m glad to be here. It’s quite a house. Perhaps you could assist me, Ms. Meier. I need to meet up with Dr. Walker. He said he’d be outside the library. Can you please point out the way?”